Edinburgh’s jamboree will have to fizz without me

I have dug a hole in my calendar. For the first time in more than 25 years, I will not be going to Edinburgh. It feels odd: a space towards the end of the summer that was always earmarked for a noisy mix of friends and shows, of comedies and concerts, of walking and talking. But even though the atmosphere this year will be uniquely charged, because of the referendum, I have decided to opt out.

The Edinburgh Festival was one of the first created in those optimistic postwar years. I first visited in the late Fifties, when my husband was sent up by BBC Radio’s drama department to sniff out new talent. It was quite an austere affair, run by arts gurus who planned wonderful concerts and plays and not much else. There was no Fringe. No fireworks. No parade. Few restaurants, serving terrible food. It rained. And I wore the wrong shoes.

Decade by decade, I have watched the affair grow into what must be the most extensive creative jamboree on the planet. And the city has moved with it, setting aside the prim tone of its past to welcome thousands of performers, stand-up comics, mime groups, university clubs, as well as plenty of grand musicians, actors, companies and orchestras.

Was ever the trajectory of an institution more reflective of the changing times? In this move towards pleasure, I have seen banks transformed into restaurants and churches into theatres. I have seen solid citizens step aside to accommodate acrobats and jugglers on the pavements. Banners hang from windows and railings. Good causes plead their cases to the thoughtful young. There is fun to be had and money to be made. The economics of the enterprise are gargantuan. The country turns to leisure and makes it profitable.

Over the years, I have reported from there for the BBC, and for ITV. I shall miss that thrill of disembarking at Waverley station and sensing the giddiness in the air. My fellow travellers might well have been students, jazzmen, authors, actors… all eager, all expectant, spilling into the city with a bewildering medley of languages and hopes.

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And the cultural riches are amazing. Among my favourite memories are a Richard III by the Georgian theatre company Rustaveli; the Polish artist Tadeus Cantor’s theatre piece Dead Class; outstanding displays of Scottish contemporary art in its Eighties heyday; and being the sole audience member for an eerie Samuel Becket monologue. In more recent years, the Book Festival has been a great draw, with programmes of international authors promoting the peaceful debate of the world’s problems. Indeed, I wonder how much Alex Salmond and Nicola Sturgeon will be in evidence. If Angela Merkel can be seen at Bayreuth, it would be nice to have our politicos support Edinburgh for once.

So why am I not going? The truth is that as I slow down, the festival is speeding up. The Fringe – which has, on principle, never turned anyone away – now features some 3,000 groups. The official International Festival has its usual gorgeous gems, not least the Mariinsky Opera’s production of The Trojans. There’s sure to be good stuff at the Traverse theatre, the Scottish National Gallery and the Assembly Rooms.

But knowing just how to tackle such an abundance of good things is overwhelming. The city is uncomfortably crowded, the bars and cafés packed. It’s a pity they can’t have a sub-Fringe at another time of year, somewhere else in the student calendar. As it is, many tender young companies will struggle to find an audience, and go home poor and disappointed.

But what I will miss most is the talk: there’ll be more people worth talking to in Edinburgh in the next few weeks than anywhere else in Britain. Stranger talks to stranger, friends meet up, new friends are made. I’ll miss all that. But then, I'll be back one day…